contained news, and less of the fiction (culled from old magazines)
with which it had been regaling us for weeks. On Monday we read of
modern London, and of transports, fights, etc. (in the present war). We
were engrossed in the news when the Boer guns began to play. Three shots
were fired, and we had to admire the impudence of an enemy who acted as
if the coming Column gave him no concern. The missiles hit nobody,
although one was facetiously alleged to have winged a locust. These
insects swarmed the land--it was difficult to avoid hitting them--and
one was not missed. We got more shells in the afternoon, but they did no
harm whatsoever.

The predominant and all-absorbing subject of discussion was the Column,
its coming, its movements generally. We felt a little disappointed at
the delays which the opposition it had encountered rendered unavoidable.
But we were not despondent, nor hyper-critical--not yet. The
bombardments might be written down a fiasco, and what after all did it
matter whether relief came to-morrow, or not till the day following.
Still, these delays upset plans and calculations. They upset bets and
wagers, and the "bad losers" who villified both Briton and Boer with
delightful impartiality. They upset diary-writers--prospective meteors
in the firmaments of literature--and they upset the magnates of the De
Beers Corporation, whose annual meeting had been fixed for that day. The
meeting had to be postponed until Thursday, in order that the dividend
declared might immediately be cabled, in accordance with custom, to the
shareholders throughout the world. The wires were bound to be in
flashing order by Thursday. It was re-assuring to find oneself in
agreement on that head with a rock of common sense like Mr. Cecil
Rhodes.

Ten more shells were pitched at us on Tuesday, only one of which reached